


Sweet Sixteen

by windstorms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Sam's Birthday, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Masturbation, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windstorms/pseuds/windstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the night before Sam's 16th birthday, and it becomes a night of first times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustMeP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMeP/gifts).



> Art by supernutjapan.

 

 

Sam’s not sure what age he was when he first truly noticed his brother. Dean had always just been _Dean_. Sam had grown up used to the way that adults would smile at Dean affectionately, perhaps open up a little easier than they would to most people. At no-name diners in dead-end towns the tired waitresses would slide over a plate of warm apple pie to his brother and they’d wink at Dad and comment that he was going to have a real heartbreaker on his hands one day.

He used to think it was Dean’s cocky but charming attitude that he’d been fine-tuning ever since Sam could remember, and by the time Dean was a teenager his confident swagger was fully in place. They’d nearly gotten thrown out of a truck stop in New Mexico once when a truck driver had said something to Dean that Sam hadn’t overheard, too caught up in reading to really pay much attention to his surroundings.

But he remembers the way Dad had reacted, shoving the trucker against the counter and gripping him by his shirt with a snarled _you will not touch my boy_. He’d backed up his declaration with a few punches and they’d left in a hurry before the cops could be called, and Sam still remembers Dean casting furtive looks at their father and Dad’s quiet fury as they sped out of town.

Sam started to pay more attention after that. The way that teenagers around Dean’s age and adults that were older, sometimes much older, looked at Dean. Women and men alike would stare a little too long at his eyes, his mouth, his body. Sometimes it seemed like everyone was drawn to Dean.

But to Sam, he’d still just been Dean. His Dean. The annoying older brother that laughed at his own dumb jokes and played his crappy music too loud and would belch the entire alphabet just to disgust Sam. The brother that made him a birthday cake for his thirteenth birthday while their father was away on another hunt. The cake had barely been edible, but they both ate until they were so full they were sick and laughing at everything from the sugar high. The brother that taught him to shoot hoops as easily as he helped him learn to shoot a gun.

There were girls, of course. Lots of girls. They were always looking, always following Dean around the times he bothered to show up at school. Sometimes he’d have one tucked up under his arm when Sam passed him in the hall, but he’d always manage to share a secret, soft smile with Sam.

Sam never felt jealous, because Dean was always his.

*

It’s late. Friday night inside the house, the air is thick and heavy, stifled with heat because the air conditioning doesn’t work in the poor excuse for a cottage they are renting. Dad’s been gone on a hunt in Ohio for three days, and Dean is out with his girlfriend of the week. He’ll stumble through the door sometime well after midnight, smelling of whiskey and weed and sex.

Sam will turn sixteen tomorrow, but nobody is here to care. “Happy Birthday to me,” Sam mumbles to himself. He’s not that bitter, really. Hunting comes like breathing air to Dad, and Dean… well, Dean takes rebellion to new levels when Dad’s not around.

He’s thought of his own way to celebrate his birthday a little early anyway. Sam slips off the couch and heads down the hall to Dean’s room. He knows where Dean keeps his stash of alcohol. Dean always has some on hand because he’s been making his own fake ID’s since he was seventeen even though he won’t be able to buy alcohol legally for another year yet.

He pushes open the door to Dean’s room and heads straight for the closet. He rummages around under a pile of dirty clothes until he finds what he’s looking for: a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Smirking to himself at how predictable his brother is, he twists the cap off the bottle and takes a cautious sip. He coughs a little as the first mouthful burns its way down his throat. It’s not the first time he’s had alcohol, but he’s never liked the taste of it. He closes his eyes and swallows another mouthful anyway. His eyes are already stinging; he’s really not sure why Dean likes this shit so much.

He’s only done this when it was a necessary evil; a sort of painkiller when Dean or Dad had to stitch him up from a hunt a couple of times, so he’s not used to doing this when he’s not already feeling out of it from pain and adrenaline. Sam keeps drinking anyhow, and he finds that after a few minutes the taste is a little less disgusting.

An hour later, he’s sitting on the floor of Dean’s room, his back against the wall, his long legs thrown out in a relaxed, careless sprawl. He’s pleasantly buzzed, maybe well on his way to drunk, and he doesn’t care about Dad and his stupid wendigo or Dean and his too-cute too-perky bottled blonde girlfriend anymore.

The room is not exactly spinning yet, but it’s not exactly still either. The bottle of Jack is about halfway gone. Dean might be pissed off when he finds out, but it’s almost his birthday so Sam figures Dean owes him this as one of his presents.

He takes another swig of whiskey, then tips the bottle in mock salute at the Led Zeppelin poster hanging over Dean’s bed. He doesn’t like Led Zeppelin all that much, but with the alcohol coursing through him he’s feeling charitable.

Distantly, he hears the front door open and bang closed, and at first he doesn’t really register what it means. It’s not until he hears Dean’s voice call out a muffled, “Sam?” a moment later that he thinks, _oh shit_.

He climbs to his feet and looks around the sparse bedroom. For what, he doesn’t know. Somewhere to hide the bottle, himself, all the evidence of this whole miserable evening of self-pity. “Sam?” Dean calls again, this time his voice sounding more troubled.

“In here,” Sam says, and his voice sounds too loud to his own ears. He has no idea if his words came out as a whisper or a yell; if Dean had even heard him or not. He throws his head back and laughs.

Apparently Dean had at least heard his laughter. He hears footsteps coming down the hall and he waits like a condemned man awaiting the firing squad, listening as Dean first heads into Sam's room. A moment later he finally rounds the corner with a grumbled, “I told you to stay out of my room, bitch.”

Dean folds his arms across his chest and waits for Sam to say something. He's wearing his leather jacket that's still a little too big for him. On anyone else his age it would look ridiculous, but on Dean it looks downright sinful. The way he casually leans against the doorway and stares at Sam, tongue flicking out to lick his plush, full bottom lip is just obscene.

And fucking hell, Sam completely understands why people look at Dean like he's stepped out of a movie screen. Wide green eyes, hair always perfectly tousled to look like he's just been thoroughly fucked, broad shoulders, slim hips leading to bowed legs that give Sam thoughts about them being wrapped around his waist... Sam knows all too well how lethal Dean is, but he's so beautiful sometimes it makes Sam ache with want.

“Are you drunk?” is the next thing out of Dean's mouth, completely shattering the moment.

“No,” Sam says, fully aware of exactly how absurd the lie is when there's a bottle of whiskey dangling loosely in his hand.

“You're drunk.” This time it isn't a question.

Sam shrugs under Dean's scrutiny, feeling defensive and suddenly every bit the fifteen-year-old he technically still is for another forty-six minutes. “So're you,” he mumbles. As comebacks go, it's a pitiful attempt.

“Nah, I only had a couple beers.” Dean crosses the distance between them and moves to rescue the bottle from Sam's precarious grip. Sam feels a little twinge as Dean's fingers brush across his hand.

“How's Candy?” Sam asks, and if his voice comes out sounding a little like a petulant five-year-old's, well, he'll blame it on the alcohol.

“I'm too sober for this,” Dean sighs. “Her name is Carly,” Dean adds before taking a healthy slug from the bottle. “I dropped her off a couple hours ago. Went and had some beers with Jake instead.”

Sam's not sure how to process this information. “Huh,” he says, and then staggers so badly he almost falls over. He decides sitting on Dean's bed might be the safer alternative, and with a little determination he manages to seat himself on the edge of the bed without missing and falling onto the floor. Success.

“Did you puke?” Dean asks, eyes darting around the room. “I swear to God if you yakked in my room I'll make your hangover tomorrow look like frickin' Christmas morning.”

“I didn't puke,” Sam assures him. Although the thought had crossed his mind about half an hour ago, the queasiness had thankfully subsided.

Dean arches an eyebrow and looks him up and down like he's trying to decide if Sam's lying and there's a puddle of vomit waiting for him under his pillow. Finally, he nods at Sam with something like grudging respect. “I did the first time I got wasted.”

Sam can't quite believe Dean's sharing something like that with him. The same Dean Winchester that refuses to admit he doesn't like needles or flying. “Really?”

Dean nods again, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a wry smile. “Yeah. Wait a few years to try tequila. It'll kick your scrawny ass.” He lifts the whiskey bottle to his mouth again and takes another long drink, and Sam watches how his throat works over his Adam's apple as he swallows. He wants to follow the line of it with his tongue. He's so going to a special kind of Hell for this.

Dean sets the bottle down on the desk that he never really uses for anything except sharpening knives or cleaning guns, as far as Sam knows. Next he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across the back of his desk chair. He's wearing a plain black tee shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans that hang low on his hips. Sam has to fist his hands in the covers and stare at the wall to keep from looking at the way the denim hugs his ass.

He can't tell if Dean does things like this on purpose as some form of punishment for Sam being such a sick brother, or if he's really that oblivious to the effect he has on Sam.

Still standing with his back to him, Dean asks, “Why are you drunk, Sam?”

Sam lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, even though Dean isn't able to see it. “Why not?” he asks, and he really wishes he could stop sounding like a sullen teenager for at least two minutes.

Dean sighs and turns around to face him, making sure to catch Sam's eyes this time. “I was gonna take you out for some night driving. Teach you how to drive the car to help you pass your driver's test, but you're not in any shape for that.”

Sam lifts his chin defiantly. “Like you are?”

“Not at all,” Dean agrees, offering him a conspiratorial wink. “Tell you what. We'll go tomorrow, if you're not feeling too bad after this.” He gestures to the bottle. “You could've mixed it with Coke, you know. It helps until you get used to it and can handle it straight.”

Sam fidgets with the blanket under his hands, deliberately not looking at Dean. Dean's being surprisingly nice, not anything like Dad would be if he had come home to find Sam getting smashed.

And yet.

For some reason, it makes his gut twist in an uncomfortable way that chugging the whiskey hadn't. He wishes Dean didn't still see him as the irritating little brother that tags along after him while he does grown-up stuff.

He's sweating through his shirt, damp bangs sticking to his forehead. Dean still looks calm and unruffled, like the fact it's at least eighty-three degrees in here and they're sort of drinking together isn't unusual. Sam decides to follow Dean's lead. “Can I have some more of that?”

Dean grins wickedly, not even trying to hide his amusement. He grabs the whiskey off the desk and then strokes the neck of the bottle with his forefinger. It shouldn't be as suggestive as it is, but as usual, it somehow works for Dean. “If you can't say it, you shouldn't be doing it Sammy.”

Sam tilts his head, presses his lips into a thin line and levels a glare at Dean. It's the only weapon in his arsenal that really irritates Dean, so over the last few years Sam has learned to save the expression for when it's most useful. Like right now. “Pass it over, jerk.”

Dean gives him a speculative look, and Sam's expecting him to go into overprotective big brother mode and tell him he's had enough. He's surprised when Dean wordlessly hands him the bottle and sits down next to him at the end of the bed.

Sam tips his head back and takes a long gulp, conscious of Dean's eyes on him. It's juvenile, but he wants to impress him. Luckily the whiskey tastes like almost nothing by now, just bitter liquid heat. He doesn't feel the urge to cough or gag this time as the liquid slides down his throat and pools in his belly.

They sit like that for a while, quietly passing the bottle back and forth, taking turns drinking. It's a comfortable silence. By the time they polish off the bottle the room is far too hot, almost unbearably so, and Dean finally notices. He gets up and opens the window, pausing a moment to draw in a lungful of fresh air. When he sits back down he lurches to the side drunkenly and ends up sitting a little closer to Sam. Sam moves his leg slightly, just a fraction really, but it's enough so that their thighs end up pressed together.

“How drunk are you?” Sam asks quietly.

If there's anything he's ever been sure of, it's this. Just about everything important he knows about life he learned from Dean. There is just one more thing he wants to learn from him. Maybe.. maybe if Dean is drunk enough he will let him get away with it. Maybe he won't ever remember any of this and Sam won't have to go into the Witness Protection Program in the morning.

“Probably not as drunk as you. But I'm getting there,” Dean says, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he looks over and smiles at Sam fondly.

Sam glances at the empty bottle that's been discarded on the floor, and he wishes there was some whiskey left to give him a bit more liquid courage. It's now or never. Even in his drunken, hazy mind he's painfully aware he'll probably never have another opportunity like this. He feels a little like he did when he was five and he jumped off of the shed after his brother. Hanging suspended in that moment, waiting for the pain to slam into him. His stomach swoops and lurches, his brain feels like it's caught in a free-fall.

He lunges forward and kisses Dean before he has the time to talk himself out of it. At first Dean is perfectly, utterly still. Not returning the kiss, but not punching him in the face either. It's a chaste kiss, only a soft press of his mouth to Dean's. It's possibly a little clumsy due to the alcohol, but Sam's okay with that.

For one split second, Sam thinks Dean is going to go with it. But then Dean pulls away, looking completely horrified. He shakes his head at Sam, mouth gaping open, and then he bolts off the bed and across the room, swearing to himself.

_Oh God I fucked this up so monumentally there isn't even a word for it._

Dean spins around to face him, and once he gets a look at the stormy expression on his face Sam sort of wishes he hadn't. “What the hell was that?” Dean asks angrily, brushing the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I'm sorry,” Sam says instantly.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Dean repeats, and Sam wonders if he kind of broke his brother.

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment, his eyes full of emotions that Sam can't begin to decipher. The only sounds in the room are Dean's ragged breathing and crickets chirping outside the window.

“I thought you might-” Sam begins, but he never gets a chance to finish his sentence.

“Sam, you're drunk. You're horny. You're confused.” Dean nods to himself, like the matter is settled.

Sam could go with any or all of those excuses and let this whole thing go. He should. It would be the smart thing to do. But he can't. Sam can't stand the despondent look on his brother's face, knowing that he put it there. He carefully gets to his feet and goes to stand in front of him. “I want you to kiss me.”

“Sam...” Dean's voice comes out strained, almost a plea. “You don't know what you're asking me for here.”

“'m not a kid.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then could you let me? Could you pretend, maybe? For a minute – just pretend that you want this too. Just this one time?”

Dean shoves him away forcefully then, and Sam nearly falls on his ass. He stumbles backwards a few steps before regaining his balance. When Sam recovers enough to look back over at him, Dean is rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a sure sign of how nervous he is.

“You have no idea how much I _do_ want it, you little shit.” Dean's breath hitches and he looks a little wild-eyed. “That's the whole fucking problem here.” Dean moves towards the doorway, but Sam can't let him go now, can't let him escape from this room or his chance will be lost forever.

Without even stopping to think, he surges across the room and grabs a hold of Dean's shoulder before he can reach the door. Dean hauls around like he might hit him, but of course he doesn't. He just stops and waits for whatever is coming next, like a man that's been defeated. He's sweating now, his face pale and his breathing unsteady.

“Sam. We can't.”

He's waiting for Dean to methodically list the litany of reasons why they shouldn't do this. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath. “I know what you're gonna say. All the reasons we shouldn't. Incest is sick and wrong. Dad would flay us both alive. I'm too young. We're drunk. Did I miss any?”

Dean laughs bitterly. The sound is harsh, echoing off the walls of the small bedroom. “I dunno. How about the fact you're not gay?”

“I've wanted you for as long as I can remember,” Sam declares, and he doesn't miss the way Dean flinches at his admission. “Probably before I even knew what it meant. It's always been you.”

Dean shakes his head in denial and folds his arm across his chest. “You don't know what you're talking about right now.”

“I know you think I'm still your kid brother that you have to protect, Dean. But I'm not a child anymore. And I've seen the way you look at me sometimes too,” Sam says boldly, taking a few steps towards his brother. “So why is it so wrong, when it's always just been us, huh? When it's always going to be only you and me?”

“Sam.” His name slips from Dean's mouth in a rough whisper.

“Tell me you don't feel something and I'll never mention it again.”

Dean shakes his head. He moves closer and then looks up at the ceiling with a rueful smile and tells it, “I'm going to Hell.”

Sam steps even closer so they're only a few inches apart. So close he can make out the brown flecks in Dean's eyes. “Coming with you.”

Dean laughs softly, his breath gusting over Sam's cheek. He raises his hand like he's going to caress Sam's face. Then he pauses, stills his hand an inch from Sam's jaw, and lets out a shaky breath. “This is _such_ a bad idea.”

Sam can see the desire and hesitation warring within his eyes, so he decides to make the first move. Again. He leans up and brushes his lips across Dean's. Lightly, just a test really, but then Dean's kissing him back, and Sam's only coherent thought is _finally_.

Dean takes control almost instantly this time, his mouth hard and demanding over Sam's. Sam opens his lips, not quite sure what to do, but Dean opens for him immediately, sweeping his tongue across Sam's and tangling with it, claiming him. Dean tastes like a mixture of beer and whiskey, but mostly just Dean. He runs a hand through Sam's hair and then cradles the back of his head, holding him still while his tongue explores Sam's mouth. Sam groans into it, trying his best to keep up.

It doesn't feel anything like he thought it would. It's more intoxicating than the alcohol, this thing sparking and coming to life between them. God, he's waited years to do this and it's finally, actually happening. He lets out a soft whimper, unable to hold it back, and Dean hums in response and pulls him closer against his body.

It's intense and a little messy and Sam's loving every second of it. He hasn't ever done anything like this before. He's kissed a few girls, felt up some of them, but that's about the extent of his experience. He knows what he wants, but he has no idea what to do about it. Sam sags against him, feeling like his legs aren't going to be able to hold him up for much longer.

Dean pulls away to stare at him intently. “You want me to stop?” he asks.

“Hell no,” Sam says.

Dean smiles gently, one of the special smiles he reserves only for Sam. He seems to sense Sam's sudden flash of anxiety so he draws him in close, wrapping strong arms around his waist. He places a tender kiss on each cheek, then the tip of his nose, followed next by a kiss to his forehead. His lips are soft and warm. He takes his time sprinkling more kisses across Sam's face. Sam is lost in the sensations of being touched like this by Dean. Dean, the most important person in his life, is kissing him like he really means it, and it's driving Sam crazy. His nervousness seems to dissipate a little more with each kiss.

Dean moves to cup his face with his hands, thumbs stroking Sam's cheeks with a reverence that makes Sam's spine tingle. Then he leans down and kisses him again, more firmly this time. It's strange how natural this feels. Sam could stand here all night, just kissing his brother. He's not sure how long it goes on, but after a while Dean lets his mouth drift from his mouth to his jaw, then trailing down his neck to suck at the sensitive skin hard enough it's sure to leave a mark.

The rough scratch of light stubble against his skin reminds him of what he's doing and who he's doing it with. His dick twitches with interest and starts to harden in his jeans. “Dean,” he whispers, bringing his hands up to clutch at the back of his shirt.

He wants to be an active participant in this. He wants to make Dean feel good too. He slips his hand under Dean's shirt and is rewarded by a groan from his brother.

Dean distracts him then by angling his body so their hips slot perfectly together, and it feels incredible. They start to move together in an awkward rhythm. Sam's still a little hesitant about what to do until Dean grinds against him and their cocks brush against each other. Even through his jeans the friction feels amazing. He's startled to realize Dean is getting hard for him.

It's almost too much to comprehend. He pulls away and drops to his knees, doesn't even wince as his knees hit the carpet. “I think about this all the time.”

Dean makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He slips his hands into Sam's hair. “Do you make yourself come when you think about us like this?”

He can see the bulge of Dean's dick pressing against his jeans, and it makes his mouth water. Sam licks his lips and swallows. “Yes,” he says helplessly.

He leans forward to lick at the outline of Dean's cock through his jeans. He does it for about a minute, listening as Dean releases a steady stream of obscenities. After a while, he alternates between using his hand to squeeze Dean's dick through the material and mouthing against the damp jeans. He's grateful for the alcohol or he never would have been able to do something like this.

He turns his face and feels Dean through his pants, the length of his dick hard against his cheek. He hears Dean gasp above him. He smiles to himself as he returns to licking and sucking at the denim, but he wants more. With a shaking hand, he reaches up and starts to undo the zipper.

“Sam. Don't,” Dean sounds completely wrecked. He grabs Sam by the arms and yanks him to his feet. Sam moans in frustration.

“Please,” he says, not even caring how desperate he sounds. “I want to.”

“So fucking hot,” Dean says, his voice coming out a rough growl. “You have no idea how much you turn me on.”

“Then let me do it. You can tell me what to do, I'll try to make it good for you.”

“Not tonight.”

Sam starts to protest but Dean cuts him off with a kiss before he can say a word. “It's not a 'no', okay? Just not tonight. Not yet.” Dean tucks his fingers under Sam’s chin and lifts his head a little, then recaptures his mouth in another deep kiss, and Sam forgets to argue. He nods his understanding, sucking on Dean's bottom lip. He's too caught up in this feeling, desperately wanting whatever Dean will allow.

Dean's hands are roaming all over his body, making every nerve in Sam's body sing to life. He starts manhandling Sam backwards towards the bed and Sam's brain just about short circuits. They stagger and nearly fall as they stumble across the room. Dean wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders, and Sam has his hands tangled in Dean's short blond hair tight enough it has to hurt.

Dimly, he's aware that they are about to cross a line there's no coming back from. Part of him should probably care about the consequences, but all he can think about right now is how much he wants to touch, to taste, to feel every inch of Dean.

The back of his legs hit the bed, and he sits down on the mattress. Dean stands there for a second, breathing hard and looking down at Sam with an intensity in his eyes that Sam's never seen before. It occurs to him that Dean has probably done this with a guy before, but Sam can't find it in himself to wonder when it happened or with whom. All that matters is they’re here now. Together like this, finally.

Still watching Sam, Dean toes out of his shoes and bends to pull his socks off, throwing them in the general direction of the closet without even looking. He palms himself through his jeans and Sam almost forgets how to breathe. “Lay down,” Dean says, his voice raw.

Sam eagerly does as he's told. Dean pulls his tee shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. He's seen Dean shirtless countless times, but this is the first time he's ever been able to look his fill. He lifts his hands, reaching out for Dean.

“You're gonna be the death of me,” Dean growls.

He lowers himself so he's lying on top of Sam, propping himself up on one elbow and using his other hand to ruck Sam's shirt up and then skim along Sam's side, down his ribs, then tugging at his belt. Dean kisses him until he is arching up against him. Before he quite realizes what is happening, Dean has worked his belt and the top button of his pants open. He hears the distinct sound of the zipper being undone, and Sam finally gets with the program long enough to lift his ass so Dean can tug his jeans down around his hips. Then Dean's finally, finally reaching into his boxers and wrapping his large hand around his dick.

It's the first time he's ever been touched there by a hand that's not his own.

And oh. Oh. It's all he can do not to buck up into it. Somehow, it seems right that it's Dean doing this.

Dean jerks him once, twice, three times, and then sets a slow and maddening pace. Not pulling anywhere near fast enough to make him come, but just enough to make him arch his hips up off the bed. He keeps him there on the edge, lazily dragging his hand up Sam's length and thumbing at the slit, while he fucks him with his tongue at the same time.

Dean pulls away long enough to suck a wet open-mouthed kiss along his jaw. He runs the pad of his thumb over the slit again, smearing pre-come all over his dick to make the slide up and down his shaft that much easier. Sam is making all sorts of embarrassing noises, too far gone to care.

“Is this how you do it when you think of me?” Dean asks.

It takes Sam a moment to stammer out a simple “no”. He's too distracted by the feeling of Dean's weight pressing on top of him, his hand on his dick, rubbing pre-come all around the head.

“Show me,” Dean breathes. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me doing this to you.”

Sam reaches up to wrap his hand around his brother's. Then he guides his hand until they're both jerking his dick in the faster rhythm he usually prefers on those nights when he's trying to be so, so quiet so his father and brother won't hear him. It's filthy, and later on Sam will probably be embarrassed to be showing someone - particularly his brother - how he masturbates, but right now it's the hottest thing that he's ever experienced.

“Please,” he says, and he's not even sure what he's asking for anymore.

“It's okay,” Dean encourages, and Sam moans and spreads his legs a little wider, giving Dean more room to do whatever he wants. Dean kisses him again, the weight of his body pressing him down into the mattress, both of their hands keeping up the steady rhythm he's set.

There's a tingling pleasure spreading throughout his entire body from the tips of his toes and his fingertips, traveling inwards through his limbs and chest straight to his groin. He feels his balls drawing up tight, and he knows it won't be long now.

“I've got you little brother.”

That's all it takes. He comes with a shout, spurting between their bodies, all over both of their fists and Dean's chest, even getting some on Sam's stomach and shirt. Dean slows his pace but doesn't stop yet, works him through his orgasm until Sam stills.

When he can almost breathe properly again, Sam opens his eyes and finds Dean's still watching him, a tenderness in his eyes that he's seen directed at him before but could never place until now. Sam leans up and captures his mouth in a kiss. It's less frantic this time. Dean is surprisingly gentle, kissing him slow and deep, his tongue licking the inside of his mouth until Sam is nearly dizzy.

All too soon, Dean rolls off of him, shifts so he's lying on his side pressed up against the entire length of Sam's body. Before Sam can protest the loss of Dean's weight, Dean skates a hand over his own chest, scooping up some of the mess they've made. While Sam watches, he lifts his hand to his mouth and slowly licks the come from each finger.

Sam groans, and if he were physically capable of coming again right now he would. “What about you?” he asks, gesturing towards Dean's still obvious hard-on.

“We've got time for that. But there's no rush, Sam. Not tonight,” Dean says for the third time this evening, flashing his most infuriating shit-eating grin.

He rises from the bed and pads barefoot into the bathroom and comes back a moment later with a glass of water. “Drink this,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Sam silently complies, and then sets the empty glass on the nightstand.

He's halfway expecting Dean to kick him out of his room then, but it doesn't happen. They end up lying in bed tangled together, sticky from sweat and Sam’s dried come, both of them still mostly dressed and slightly drunk. The gentle breeze coming through the open window makes the heat more tolerable, and there’s really no place Sam would rather be.

“I’ve wanted you since before it was even anything close to resembling appropriate,” Dean admits softly. He scrubs his hand over his face. “Not that this is appropriate, but. Fuck. You know what I mean.”

“You could’ve had me all along.”

They fall back into silence. Sam shifts and relaxes in his brother’s arms. He feels so peaceful he will probably be able to fall asleep easily for the first time in weeks, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

They're going to have to talk about this. Even Dean, who would probably rather cut off a limb than have a discussion about his feelings will probably have a lot to say on the matter. But not yet. Not right now. It can wait until the morning.

“I got you a cake,” Dean says then, lips brushing gently across his temple.

Sam looks up, surprised. He had almost forgotten about his birthday during the events of the last hour. “You did?”

“Mmhmm. It's in the kitchen. I had to go to three different groceries to find one that was still open this late, but I wanted you to have one. If you ask me, a pie would have been better, but I know how you like your traditions and all.”

“Dean.” He's so overwhelmed he can't say anything else around the sudden lump in his throat. He started out the night thinking Dean was off doing his _Rebel Without a Cause_ impression, and it turned out he was all wrong about him. In so many ways it makes his heart ache.

Dean tightens his arm around Sam's shoulders. “Of course, the frosting is pink and it says 'Happy Birthday Samantha' but you know.... Only the very best for my birthday boy,” Dean continues.

Sam wouldn't put it past him to do something exactly like that, but he can tell by the way Dean's shaking against him with silent laughter that he's just fucking with him. Sam doesn't rise to the bait, just shifts closer and drapes his arm across Dean's stomach.

“Thank you.”

“Happy Birthday, Sammy,” Dean murmurs.

He looks over at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It reads 12:32. Sam smiles and settles against Dean, feeling tired but content. Half an hour into his birthday and it's already the best one he can remember.


End file.
